


Sugarcoat It

by withthekeyisking



Series: dc kinkmeme fills [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, BAMF Jason Todd, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Brainwashing, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Conditioning, DC Kinkmeme, Dark Bruce Wayne, Evil Slade Wilson, Extremely Dubious Consent, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Hurt Dick Grayson, M/M, Mindfuck, Protective Jason Todd, Shame, Shower Sex, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: When they rescue Dick from Slade, he isn't the same as he was before his captivity.And Bruce is a weak man.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, past Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson - Relationship
Series: dc kinkmeme fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771219
Comments: 73
Kudos: 462





	Sugarcoat It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DC Kinkmeme prompt found [here](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/766.html?thread=12030#cmt12030)!

The first time it happens, Bruce stops it immediately.

It's only been nine days since Bruce brought Dick home, since Bruce found his son chained to a wall in Slade Wilson's house. Nine days filled with equal amounts of relief (he's _home,_ he's actually _home)_ and worry (he's too quiet, too watchful, too hesitant, too _still)_ during which Bruce has tried to be better than he normally is about being there for his kids.

He's failed, in the past. Sequestered himself away in the cave instead of actually being present for the ones who need him. But Jason and Alfred both made it clear that this time that wasn't going to fly, not with how long Dick was gone, not with how desperately Dick would need his dad after months of captivity.

(Of course, they'd had different ways of going about that conversation. Jason had yelled, and threatened a little. Alfred had spoken very calmly, and threatened a little.)

Which led to Bruce spending lots of time around Dick, which is...hard. He's simply so very _different_ than he was eight months ago; gone is the sharp wit and blinding smile, the independence Dick craved and created for himself. Gone are casual hugs to his siblings and randomly walking on his hands through the Manor because it helps him "think better".

Now, in the place of everything that made Dick _Dick,_ is this quiet, submissive... _thing._ Never speaking without having first been spoken to, never doing anything without permission (not even something as simple as leaving the room to go to the bathroom, or picking up utensils to eat). Always quick to follow requests, always sitting on the ground until he's reminded that he can sit on the furniture.

Bruce didn't catch Deathstroke, but he's looking forward to the day that he does. He has quite a lot of damage he'd like to inflict on the man who took his stunning, vibrant son and turned him into a compliant... _slave._

They had their suspicions from the very beginning about what Slade's done to Dick—the bruises on his body are _certainly_ not subtle—but it isn't until nine days in that they get confirmation.

Bruce and Dick are in the library when it happens. Alone.

They've all been attempting to not crowd Dick, only two or three of them with him maximum at a time, and right now it's just Bruce—he sent Damian to stay with the Teen Titans for a little while, so that he wouldn't have to see his big brother like this until there's been an adjustment; Tim is at WE, trying to act like everything is fine in the Wayne family; Jason stormed off three days before, muttering something about a job with his team; Cass is at dance class; Alfred is in the middle of doing the dishes.

They're sitting on one of the couches in the corner, a comfortable little nook that Jason used to spend hours in when he was younger, both of them reading their own books. Dick had gone still when Bruce offered him an option of reading materials, but had covered his confusion well enough, selecting the one closest to him and murmuring a quiet _thank you_ as he cracked it open, one eye on Bruce the whole time like he's waiting for the catch.

Half an hour passes without incident.

At one point, Titus comes wandering in. The dog patters up to Dick, sniffing, and Dick hesitantly offer his hand to the animal, the slightest of smiles curving his lips when Titus licks his fingers and then pushes into them, requesting further petting. It makes Bruce's heart soar in his chest; Dick is _smiling!_ He doesn't think his son's done that once since being saved. It's something marvelous.

But then Dick's hand shifts around, going to scratch under Titus' chin. Bruce doesn't have time to call a warning; just last week, Damian and Titus had gone for a walk out in the fields past the Manor and Titus had gotten bitten by some large bug, and the area around it is still a little painful for the creature. Titus has a tendency to snap at those who try to touch him there while he heals.

Sure enough, Titus' happy pant turns into a growl instantly, his teeth snapping in warning. Dick jerks his hand back, eyes wide. Titus settles immediately now that the offending appendage is gone, but the damage has been done, even if Bruce doesn't catch it yet, too focused on shooing the dog away.

"He's injured," Bruce informs Dick in the following silence, eyes still on Titus to make sure the dog actually does as it's told and leaves the library. "So you can't touch him there."

Motion out of the corner of his eye draws his attention back to his son, just in time to watch Dick slide off the couch to his knees on the floor, shuffling over to Bruce.

Bruce frowns at him, confused as to what's going on. Dick's hands rise, and settle high up on Bruce's thighs. Bruce grabs his wrists in a reflexive action to the sudden touch, and doesn't let go when Dick cringes, head bowing.

"Dick, what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Master," Dick whispers, eyes on the floor. "Please, let me make it up to you." His wrists flex in Bruce's grip, fingers brushing along the fabric of Bruce's slacks.

Bruce sits there, heart pounding, staring at the kneeling form of his son. His son, whose hands are mere inches from Bruce's crotch, the intention clear. Nausea rolls in Bruce's stomach as he realizes what this truly means about Dick's captivity. How deep it goes, that Dick would "willingly" drop to his knees and beg forgiveness for something he didn't even do.

"No, it's—" Bruce cuts himself off, clearing his throat, and pushes Dick's hands away. "I'm not your...master. No one is. And you don't have to make anything up to me. You didn't do anything wrong."

Dick seems to shrink in on himself a little, so Bruce says, "Look at me," and his boy does, bright blue eyes flicking up to meet his gaze.

Bruce tries to put as much sincerity into his expression as he can, heart still far too fast in his chest, as he says, "You did nothing wrong. And even if you did, it's forgiven."

That seems to make Dick feel better, some of the tension in his shoulders draining away, the look on his face almost _pleased_ when he replies, "Thank you, Master."

Bruce opens his mouth to correct him again, and then closes it. Takes a breath to instead say, "Why don't we keep reading?"

He's relieved when Dick nods immediately, going back over to his spot on the couch like nothing is out of the ordinary.

Bruce stares at the words on the page in front of him, but he doesn't take any of it in. His mind is stuck on the way Dick looked, kneeling between his legs, beautiful blue eyes looking up at him from underneath his black fringe of hair, so very eager to please.

* * *

The second time this kind of thing happens, Bruce stops it then, too. Immediately.

* * *

The third time is a little less...immediate.

Dick catches him off guard, is all. They're in the batcave, Dick sitting cross-legged and sketching something in a notebook Alfred gave him to see if it would help him express himself more than he can in spoken word. Bruce is working on a case at the computer, freshly showered and his shirt off to allow the new wound on his side time to breathe while he's still upright.

He's missing some of his notes, and he glances around to see the datapad he needs a few feet away, just past where Dick sits.

Bruce doesn't think anything of it to request, "Dick, would you hand that to me?" and tries to ignore the twinge in his chest when Dick reacts immediately, grabbing the wanted device and moving over to Bruce.

He reaches out to hand it to the older man, and Bruce holds his hand out, and the shift of weight somehow hits the cup of coffee sitting off to the side, tipping it over and spilling the long-cold liquid.

It doesn't get on anything, really just dripping onto the cold cave floor, but a wounded noise makes its way out of Dick's throat and he drops to his knees. Bruce's legs had already been spread, simply the way he'd been resting in the chair, and so Dick slips close without any trouble, hand going up to palm at Bruce's dick through the material of his sweatpants.

Bruce sucks in a sharp breath, surprised at the forwardness and a little stunned still, watching as Dick's head leans in to follow his hand, and then—

"Christ," Bruce breathes as Dick mouths at him over his sweatpants, hot and wet, tonguing at the area with determination.

Dick pulls back for a moment, just long enough to say, "I'm so sorry, Master, I didn't mean to. Please forgive me."

It sends a jolt through Bruce's entire body, forcing him to remember why Dick is doing this. He pushes back quickly, sending his chair rolling away from Dick and his open, warm mouth. Dick stares after him for a moment, clearly confused, and then curls in on himself.

Bruce can hear him whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and jerks to his feet, striding very quickly away.

He knows he's going to have to go back soon, to make sure Dick knows he's not angry with him, that everything is okay.

But first, he needs a moment to breathe. And maybe a cold shower.

* * *

The fourth time, Bruce explains his actions away.

Or, rather, his _lack_ of action.

Alfred has given Dick the task of folding the laundry, just to give the boy something to do, and so Bruce keeps part of his attention on Dick in the corner of his eye, the other part on the work he's supposed to be completing on his desk.

Tim is there too, this time, talking to Dick, but really more like talking _at_ him. They've all formed their own little ways to cope with what happened to Dick, and Tim's is holding conversations with Dick as if nothing has changed, even when Dick doesn't respond unless asked direct questions.

Bruce sees Tim falter just a little each time Dick doesn't reply as he would've before all of this, but he seems determined to include Dick nonetheless.

Dick finishes folding the laundry, and Bruce can see him stare at it for a moment, biting his lip, seemingly debating what to do. Bruce is getting close to offering to call Alfred to take the finished task away, when Tim suggests, "Why don't you and I put that stuff away, Dick?"

Dick nods, pushing to his feet, and hooks the laundry basket against his hip. He looks to Bruce, hesitant, and Bruce knows he's seeking permission, even after all the times they've told him he doesn't need their say-so to do things. But Bruce nods all the same, and so Tim leads Dick away, vanishing from view.

Bruce only manages to pretend to focus for another ten minutes before he gives up with a sigh, pushing back from his desk. He feels bone-dead tired, and still he's not even close to done for the day, the start of patrol still a few hours away. He could take a nap, he supposes. Might help him be more alert for when he's really needed later.

Mind made up, Bruce makes his way out of his office and up to his bedroom. He finds the door cracked, though, and pauses for only a moment before pushing into his room with a frown. Dick's standing in front of his dresser, shutting the top drawer just as Bruce comes into view, and his eyes widen a little when he sees Bruce, and then suddenly folds to his knees.

Bruce just stares, mouth dry, as Dick crawls across the few feet that separate them, only stopping when he's kneeling right at Bruce's feet. "I'm sorry, Master," he says, hands sliding up Bruce's thighs, and Bruce swallows.

"I—why?" Bruce asks.

"I entered your room without permission," Dick responds promptly, leaning in to nuzzle at Bruce's crotch. Bruce takes a slow breath. "Tim said it was okay, but...I should've known better."

"It's..."

Bruce doesn't know where he was going with that, his train of thought screeching to a halt as Dick mouths at Bruce's crotch over the material of his slacks, movements practiced and sure. Bruce stares down at him, doing nothing to stop him as Dick reaches up for his belt, undoing it, and then pulling down the zipper.

Bruce should be stopping this. He really should be. Dick isn't in his right mind, has been abused and raped for the last eight months of his life. He's only doing this because he thinks he has to, because he thinks Bruce will be angry with him if he doesn't. Slade Wilson _broke_ him, and Bruce should be dedicating his time towards helping his son heal, not allowing this to go on.

"Dick, you don't have to do this," Bruce says, but his voice sounds weak to his own ears. "You don't..."

Dick hooks his fingers into the waistband of Bruce's underwear and pants, and inches them down until they rest around Bruce's thighs. Shamefully, Bruce's half-hard cock bobs upward, and Dick wastes no time in taking it in his mouth, one of his hands going up to play with Bruce's balls.

This is the part where Bruce is _really_ supposed to put an end to things. Dick wouldn't be doing this, if he had a choice. He doesn't have the capability to say no.

Instead, Bruce reaches behind himself and pushes the door closed, hiding them and what's happening from the rest of the Manor.

"Dick," Bruce says, one more time, one last try. "It's okay."

He knows the words are absolutely meaningless, and that nothing short of Bruce pushing Dick away or telling Dick to stop is going to end this. Two things he really, _really_ should be doing.

He doesn't do either of them. He just stands there and watches as Dick sinks lower, taking the entirety of Bruce into his mouth and throat. Bruce lets out a quiet, breathy moan, head tipping back, and Dick swallows around him in response.

Bruce looks down, and regrets it immediately, breath catching in his throat. Dick looks _beautiful,_ lips stretched wide around Bruce's cock, blue eyes so very bright, desperate to please.

How many times has Bruce pictured his boy just like this? Waking up in the middle of the night from dreams, aroused and ashamed by the image of Dick kneeling or naked beneath him. Using his excellent control to not bat an eye when he saw Dick in the showers. Remaining unaffected with each new relationship Dick started, keeping his jealousy from ever showing.

And now here Dick is, and Bruce is...weak.

He comes faster than he normally would, the fact that it's _Dick_ giving him a blow job and deepthroating him far more of an aphrodisiac than anything else. And Dick swallows, not a drop of cum spilling out of his mouth, and then pulls back. He licks Bruce's cock clean, kisses the head, and then tucks him right back into his pants.

"I'm sorry, Master," Dick says again, and Bruce is sick with himself. "Please forgive me."

Bruce puts a hand over Dick's bowed head, his own eyes sliding shut. He can't believe he just did that. He can't believe he _enjoyed_ it.

"You're forgiven," Bruce murmurs, and wonders if Dick will be able to say the same thing to him, one day. When all of this comes out. "I forgive you."

* * *

The next day, when Bruce goes to speak to Alfred, he tells himself it's out of concern for his father figure, not out of selfish intent.

"But we just got him back three weeks ago!" Alfred protests, frowning. "You can't honestly expect me to just cast aside my care for the boy, not after everything."

"Of course not," Bruce says, shaking his head. "I would _never_ ask you to stop caring about Dick, nor about any of the others. I'm only suggesting this because I think you've earned a vacation; you went eight months spending practically 24/7 keeping us going and alive and having hope and making sure we didn't run ourselves into the ground, and now with Dick back you seem to be working even harder, somehow.

"But he's safe now, Alfred. And you're right, it's been three weeks with almost no change. This is a long game kind of thing, getting him to heal, and you've earned a bit of a respite. Take a few weeks, a month, whatever you want. Everything will still be here when you get back, and it'll be easier to handle after a break."

Alfred looks at him doubtfully, but there's something thoughtful in his gaze, and eventually he nods, still looking hesitant. "I can see the advantages of such a thing," he says slowly. "But you must swear to me that you'll call if anything happens, and send me consistent updates as well. Is that understood?"

"Of course," Bruce says, and hates that he feels like a child getting away with stealing a cookie from the jar. "I'll send you a message every day, if you want. Just take your vacation, Alfred. You deserve it."

Alfred purses his lips, thinking it over, and then nods again, far more decisive this time. "Alright, I'll make the arrangements in the morning."

* * *

Two days later, and Alfred is gone.

Tim thinks nothing of it, agreeing with Bruce's reasoning that Alfred deserves a breather, and Dick of course doesn't question it at all. Bruce has been avoiding Cass to the best of his ability, knowing that she'll see plain as day the guilt and shame that clings to him in every moment. All it would take is her being in the same room as him and Dick for a single moment for her to understand the cause, and then it's all over.

For the first time in his life the world seems to conspire in his favor, because Cass gets a call the morning after Alfred leaves saying that she's needed back in Hong Kong, that there's a loose end from the case she was working before all this with Dick happened. She's reluctant to go for obvious reasons, but it's Tim who convinces her to leave anyway, that they'll be okay until she gets back.

Bruce can't believe his luck. And he can't believe that he's _happy_ that his family is splitting up so that he can...

So that he can take advantage of his son. What kind of monster is he?

Nothing happens for the first three days after the departures of Alfred and Cassandra. But that fourth night—

Bruce goes looking for Dick to ask if there's anything specific he would like for dinner. He knows it's very unlikely that he'll receive a response other than _'Whatever you guys want,'_ but part of helping Dick adjust back to life at the Manor is showing him that his opinions matter, that he gets to make decisions, that they're his family, not his controllers.

And Bruce has never felt like more of a hypocrite than he does now.

Dick's bedroom door is open, as it tends to be; his first instinct is to always forsake privacy, since they assume Slade never really afforded him any. They remind him that he's allowed to keep them out if he wants to, but for all that he nods when they say that, it never really seems to stick.

So Bruce steps inside and finds Dick absent, but he can hear the shower running from the ensuite bathroom across the room. That door is partially cracked, and Bruce stares at it, throat dry.

He should turn around and walk away, go ask Tim what he wants for dinner instead. Dick wouldn't give him an answer, anyway, and he doesn't need to walk in on Dick in the shower. They're trying to teach him he's allowed privacy, after all. Privacy means not having to worry about someone barging in on you in the shower.

But Bruce finds his feet carrying him across the room nevertheless, nudging the bathroom door open the rest of the way.

It's slightly steamy inside, the glass of the shower wall fogged up, but not so much that it obscures Dick completely from view.

He's beautiful, so much so that Bruce just stands there and admires him for a little while. Despite his months in captivity he's still perfectly fit, lean but laced with muscles and strength, the curve of his body graceful as he dips his head under the spray of water. Unfamiliar scars dot his skin, and Bruce wants to kiss every one of them, take away his boy's pain, take away the marks left behind by the psychopath who dared to take him as his own.

Bruce stares for long enough that Dick must feel eyes on him, because he turns to look towards the door. He doesn't look surprised to see Bruce, just blinking at him, and his eyes flick briefly past him as Bruce shuts the door.

He should leave. He shouldn't do this.

He slides the lock into place anyway.

Dick doesn't move as Bruce walks towards the shower, watching him with a blank expression, and Bruce wishes he could know what's going on in Dick's head. If his son knows Bruce shouldn't be doing this, and resents him for it. If he truly thinks it's Bruce's right. If he sees no difference between Bruce and Slade.

The very idea of that last one makes Bruce want to vomit. He's _nothing_ like Slade Wilson, that despicable man. Slade is a sadist, a manipulative psychopath, someone who took the beautiful creature that is Dick Grayson and twisted him around to suit his own sick desires. He broke someone who was perfect exactly the way he was, turning him into barely more than a slave.

Bruce would _never_ do something like that. He _loves_ Dick, has since he first took the boy in. Dick is amazing, and never deserved what Slade did to him. Bruce is _nothing_ like that.

But he's sure reaping the benefits, isn't he? He's taking advantage. He _knows_ Dick wouldn't do this, if he felt like he had a choice. Bruce is hurting his boy.

That doesn't stop him from sliding open the glass door of the shower, reaching out to shut off the water.

Still, Dick doesn't move, not even when Bruce's hand leaves the handle and over to hover over his side, desperate to touch. When he receives no complaint, no demand for Bruce to get out _(even though he knows Dick can't, won't, and this is in no way consent)_ , he settles his hand on Dick's side.

His skin is warm, flushed from the heat, and Bruce's heart speeds up in his chest, stepping closer. His socks soak through instantly as he enters the shower, the floor of it still wet, and Dick moves pliantly to make room for him.

"Beautiful," Bruce breathes, looking the younger man over in all his glory. He's never allowed himself to look, to let his gaze linger, lest he be caught and ruin everything between him and Dick. But now he doesn't have to worry about that, now he gets to stroke his hands over Dick's body, tracing scars, _feeling_ his boy for the first time.

Bruce leans in, pressing his lips to Dick's, sparks shooting through his body. Dick closes his eyes and tilts his head up, lips parting without being asked to allow Bruce entry. Bruce takes advantage immediately, humming in pleasure, slipping his tongue into Dick's mouth. He wraps his arm around Dick's waist, pulling him flush against him, and is suddenly angry at himself for being fully dressed, desperately wanting to feel Dick's skin against his own.

But they have time for that, Bruce realizes. They have all the time in the world. His boy is home, and pliant in his arms, willing. There's all the chances for him to lay Dick out on his bed, kiss every inch of him, press their bodies together, show him how much he's loved, how much Bruce loves him.

He's not like Slade. Slade wanted to _own_ Dick, to turn him into property. Bruce just wants Dick to be happy, to feel good. He's nothing like Slade. Dick knows that, too, doesn't he? He has to know that too.

Bruce reaches down, wrapping a hand around Dick's penis. He's limp, unlike Bruce who has been growing harder and harder since stepping into the shower, but that's not a problem; Bruce has experience giving his partners pleasure, and wastes no time in stroking Dick to hardness, the younger man mewling with pleasure while he does it.

He drinks in each of the noises, basking in the knowledge that he's making Dick feel good, and then undoes his slacks, pulling himself out of his pants. He takes them both in hand and strokes them together, hips thrusting forward against Dick's.

"So beautiful," Bruce says again. He wonders if Slade ever complimented Dick, or if he was just as cruel and horrible as it seemed like he was. Probably; they found Dick chained to a wall, after all. Covered in harsh bruises and marks, new scars and claims that certainly weren't there before he was taken.

Bruce wishes he could make it all better.

Dick moans when he comes, back arching, painting Bruce's hand and his own chest with his release. Bruce drinks in what he looks like, memorizing his facial expression, sure that it will follow him into his dreams. The sight sends him over the edge as well, coming right after his boy.

"So good for me, Dick," Bruce says, pressing a gentle kiss to the younger man's temple. "So very good for me."

"Thank you, Master," Dick replies automatically, and there's something faraway in his eyes that Bruce doesn't like, his gut twisting.

"Bruce," Bruce corrects, stroking Dick's cheek with the back of his hand. "Call me _Bruce,_ Dick. You're not there anymore, you're here with me. You're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you, okay? No one will ever hurt you again."

Dick just blinks at him and nods absently, the same way he does when they tell him he's allowed to have privacy or make his own choices. Like he thinks they're lying but doesn't have the ability to call them out on it.

Bruce doesn't want to see that, doesn't want to face what it means, so he closes his eyes and kisses Dick again, trying to convey how much he loves him through the one simple action.

* * *

It continues.

It escalates.

Bruce can't get himself to stop.

After that event in the shower, it's like a switch flipped in Dick's brain. Nothing overly obvious, nothing that looks any different to Tim when they're around each other, but Bruce is hyperaware of everything Dick, and so to him it's clear as a bell.

If he thought Dick was attentive or submissive before, it's _nothing_ compared to now. Dick's attention always seems to be at least partially on Bruce. He always moves when Bruce moves, ready to do anything Bruce asks of him, ready to serve.

It makes Bruce feel sick, because he knows this must be how he reacted to Slade, to keep his _master_ happy, to serve the way he was _trained_ to do. Bruce initiated something between them, and now Dick is acting like...

But it doesn't stop Bruce from taking advantage.

It stays small, in the beginning. A blowjob here or there, stroking him off whenever he just looks too good to resist, but Bruce gets bolder the longer it goes on, the longer Dick allows him to do whatever he wants with him.

He has Dick sit on his lap while he reads. He showers with him. He sneaks into his bedroom after patrol, and holds Dick against him for sleep, the younger man's ass pressed delightfully back against Bruce's crotch.

One day, at lunch, Dick knocks a small dish off the table. The small amount of sauce in it spills out onto the floor and splashes onto Bruce's shoes. Before Bruce can even begin to respond, Dick is already dropping to his knees beside Bruce. Bruce spreads his legs automatically, pulse speeding up in anticipation, but Dick doesn't shuffle forward to open Bruce's pants, instead he's leaning down and—

Bruce's breath catches as Dick's tongue swipes across the leather of Bruce's shoe, cleaning up the sauce that spilled. As soon as the first one's clean he moves over to the other one, and Bruce is frozen, unable to do anything but stare as his shoes begin to shine under his boy's attention.

This shouldn't be as arousing as it is. It really, _really_ shouldn't.

When Dick's done, he raises his head and looks up at Bruce with wide, hopeful blue eyes. There's a drop of the dark sauce at the corner of his mouth, and Bruce reaches out without thinking, swiping it away with his thumb and then pushing it into Dick's mouth.

Dick closes his lips around the digit immediately, still looking up at him desperately. Bruce knows what he wants, what he _needs,_ and Bruce has never been able to deny Dick anything that will make him feel better, so he says, "Good job, Dick. You're forgiven."

Tension melts out of Dick's shoulders, his eyelids fluttering, and his tongue swirls around Bruce's thumb.

Bruce slowly starts moving his thumb in and out of Dick's mouth, watching with hooded eyes as the younger man sucks on it. He can't resist the urge to slide a couple more fingers inside, starting the fuck them in and out quickly, imagining it's his cock he's doing it with. Dick treats them like it's a blowjob, sucking and licking and bobbing his head to let them press deeper.

Bruce is rock hard, and suddenly he's desperate to be inside of Dick, more than they've done before. He wants to bend Dick over the dining room table and yank down his pants, finally get his hands on the ass that has only ever had its praises sung.

He shouldn't. He _really_ shouldn't. What he's done so far is horrible enough, taking advantage of his boy in a villainous way, but taking this last step—there's truly no going back from that.

_Is there really any going back from what you've already done, though?_

Bruce withdraws his fingers from Dick's mouth. His voice is hoarse when he instructs, "Stand up."

Dick does as he's told, getting gracefully to his feet, and watches Bruce silently for whatever's next. Bruce stares back at him, at his beautiful blue eyes, sharp jawline, spit-slicked lips, tousled black hair—God, he's gorgeous. How is someone this perfect real? How is someone this perfect in Bruce's life?

"Come here," Bruce says, voice still rough, and Dick steps forward. He doesn't protest when Bruce puts his hands on his hips and turns him around so his back is to the older man. Bruce takes Dick's ass in his hands, squeezing over the material of his sweatpants, and then rips the garment down quickly, along with his underwear.

"Christ," Bruce breathes, and doesn't fight the urge to lean in, pressing a kiss to the swell of Dick's ass, one cheek and then the next. He bites down on the flesh, delighting in the way Dick twitches, in the way the skin instantly reddens under his attention. He's taken with the idea of leaving his _own_ marks on Dick, making sure Dick forgets all about the ones Slade left on him.

So he bites again and again, watching with satisfaction as Dick starts to shake in front of him, the skin already beginning to bruise.

"So beautiful," Bruce murmurs, rubbing his thumb firmly over the growing marks. Dick whimpers, and Bruce gentles his touch immediately, shushing his boy. "It's alright, it's alright, I'm sorry. You're just so perfect, I can't help it..."

He presses a gentle kiss to one of the bruises, then the next, repeating the process until he's shown his affection to each of them. Dick's hands are clenched on the edge of the dining room table with what Bruce can only assume is desire. He shouldn't keep his boy waiting, when Dick clearly wants him, too. He's not like Slade, and Dick knows it; Slade was an abuser, but Bruce only wants to make them both feel good. It's different. It's completely different.

Maybe if he tells himself that enough, if he manages to convince himself that Dick wants him, then this will all be okay.

"Lean down on the table," Bruce murmurs. "Down to your forearms."

Dick follows the instruction immediately, the new position raising his ass appealingly. Bruce's heart races and he gets to his feet, stepping closer.

"Gorgeous," Bruce says. "And so good. So good for me."

Dick says nothing, folding his arms on the table above him and burying his face in them.

Bruce's fingers are still slick with spit from having been in Dick's mouth; it's not enough to ease the way completely, not what Bruce would choose for his and Dick's first time, but they're _so close—_ he'll just go extra slow, make sure he doesn't hurt his boy. He wants this to be good for him.

But when he goes to push his pointer finger inside of Dick, he finds it already slick with lube and relaxed from stretching.

He freezes, eyes going wide. _What?_

"I—Dick?" Bruce says haltingly. "When did you... _why_ are you...?"

Dick's voice is muffled by his arms when he says, "I'm always prepared for your use, Master."

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, taking deep breaths, the words settling like stones in his gut. Dick spent eight months with Slade, forced to act as his slave. Was this something Slade made him do for him, keeping himself ready for whenever Slade wanted him, like an _object_ he could set aside and _use_ whenever he wanted?

Dick deserves so much more than that, deserves to be cherished and held, deserves to have his partner take their time opening him up, pleasuring him the whole time.

Next time, Bruce will do that. Next time, and the time after that, and the time after that, until Dick completely forgets about Slade's touch, about _anyone's_ touch other than Bruce's.

Bruce leans in, pressing a kiss between Dick's shoulder blades. He reaches down and undoes his belt and zipper, pushing his pants down, and then lines himself up, guiding himself towards Dick's entrance.

He groans, pushing inside, eyelids fluttering. Christ, how many times has he imagined this? For how long has he fantasized, _wanting_ his son more than anything and always ignoring the urges, always reminding himself of what an awful idea it would be?

And now here Dick is, all his.

As he begins thrusting in and out, he pictures keeping Dick all to himself, keeping him locked up in his bedroom so no one but him gets to lay eyes on this gorgeous boy, so no one but him ever gets to touch, to taste, to love. Dick is his, was always meant to be his from the very first day, and nothing Slade Wilson does will ever change that.

Dick whimpers beneath him in response to a particularly hard thrust, and Bruce moans back, sure that that sound means Dick's enjoying it too. He grabs tightly onto Dick's hips, drawing Dick back onto his cock with every thrust.

"I've wanted this for so long," Bruce breathes, thrusting with abandon. "Always wanted you, always wished—" He cuts off with a pleasured groan.

He's never felt something this amazing, this _right._ He can't believe he's finally getting what he's always wanted, that he has _Dick_ beneath him, shaking with pleasure, his to claim, his to fuck. All his.

* * *

Okay, yeah, _maybe_ Jason's been avoiding Gotham.

But can you blame him? He spent _eight months_ dedicating every waking moment to finding Dick, to bringing his brother home. All of them, they all ran themselves into the ground. And they were successful, they got Dick free of that psychotic rapist. But then he was home and it was...

Well. It was _something,_ that's for sure.

Call him a coward, but Jason couldn't face it. He couldn't handle how silent Dick was, how still, how he was treating them all like he was there for no other reason than to serve them. Dick had always been so full of life, and even though that could sometimes annoy the fuck out of Jason, that's who his brother's supposed to be. This... _mockery_ Deathstroke turned him into is just _wrong._

And watching Dick like that—Jason's never felt more helpless, and he's been in quite a few helpless situations.

So sue him, Jason only lasted six days before he called Artemis demanding she allow him to help on whatever mission she was currently working. She didn't ask why, didn't even mock him for it, which means he probably sounded especially pathetic on the phone. Not that he's complaining; if pathetic gets him far away from Gotham, then pathetic works for him.

But that can only last for so long, eventually the concern over Dick's mental state (and Alfred's and Tim's and maybe even Bruce's) forcing itself into the forefront of his mind until he has no choice but to head back to Gotham.

He stands in front of the Manor for at least ten minutes, running through some breathing exercises, squinting up at the big building. Jason struggles with being at the Manor on the best of days—too many memories, too much bad blood—and with all of this going on, it's certainly not the best of days.

But this isn't about him. This is about making sure Bruce's emotional constipation hasn't screwed Dick up any more than he already is.

"Get your shit together, Todd," Jason mutters, irritated with himself, and strides towards the front door.

He doesn't bother to knock, just walking right in. He cocks his head, listening, trying to suss out where the members of his family are. Going by the time it's probably either the dining room for lunch or Bruce's office for some work, so Jason heads towards the dining room, intending to peek his head inside on the way to the office.

But as he gets closer he hears noises from the dining room, drawn-out grunts and an odd slapping noise. He pushes the door open with a frown, and then goes rigid, frozen at the sight in front of him.

Bruce has Dick bent over the table, both of their pants around their ankles. Dick has his face pressed against his folded arms, but as he rocks back and forth on the table Jason can see the furrowed brow, the way he's digging his teeth into his lip.

Jason's brain saves the worst for last, only noticing what Bruce is truly doing after it's taken in all the other data. But there's no mistaking it, no mistaking the way Bruce is _inside_ of Dick, hands clenched on the younger man's hips and thrusting forcefully in again and again.

"You feel so good," Bruce growls, yanking Dick back against him by the hips. He still hasn’t noticed Jason standing in the doorway.

Dick's following whimper, pained and almost _afraid,_ is what jerks Jason into action. He draws his gun from his shoulder holster, Lazarus green creeping into his vision as he strides forward. Now that shock is fading away, _fury_ is seeping in, the rage strong enough to make him almost vibrate out of his own skin.

"Get the fuck off of him," Jason snarls.

Bruce freezes, head snapping up to look at Jason, eyes wide. He certainly didn't expect to get caught. Jason feels sick.

"Did you hear me?" Jason demands, and cocks the gun. Dick's head tilts up slightly, his eyes peering up at Jason from under his black fringe, and Jason's heart breaks at the wetness that coats the striking blue; Dick escaped eight months of hell, only for his father to rape him. What kind of luck is that?

Bruce lets go of Dick's hips and steps back, pulling up his pants and tucking himself away. Dick doesn't move.

"Tell me you're infected with something," Jason says, something pleading creeping into his voice. "Tell me Ivy got you, or _something."_

Because Bruce would never do this, right? Bruce would _never_ do this. They have their issues, but Bruce isn't a rapist, would never take advantage of his son. Right?

"Jason," Bruce says, voice trembling slightly. His eyes flick over to Dick, and then back to his son with the gun. "I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean...I only wanted..."

That's all Jason needs to hear to understand the truth, to understand that Bruce isn't drugged, isn't in an altered mental state. He's actually done this.

"How could you?" Jason hisses. "He's your son! He can't say no! You're _raping_ him!" He laughs incredulously, almost expecting to startle awake, to discover this is all a horrible nightmare. "You're no better than Slade!"

Bruce flinches, but his gaze hardens. _"No._ Slade only ever hurt him, I'm—"

"You're _what?"_ Jason snarls, but he doesn't give Bruce a chance to respond, curling his finger over the trigger.

The gun goes off with a _bang,_ echoing through the large dining room. Bruce wasn't expecting it, so the bullet hits where it was supposed to; he pulled the shot, aiming for the leg, not the head.

Bruce isn't getting off that easy.

Before Bruce can do anything, Jason is on him, throwing a punch that snaps Bruce's head back. He follows it up with a knee to the groin, and that paired with the gunshot wound sends Bruce crashing to the ground. Jason follows him down, straddling the older man's hips and throwing punch after punch, not fighting the green when it pulses, welcoming it like he hasn't for a very long time.

* * *

When he comes back to himself, Bruce is a bloody _(limp)_ mess beneath him, and his hands drip red.

Jason remains where he is for a few more seconds, panting heavily, staring down at the distorted face of the man he still believed in. Eventually he pushes himself to his feet, not bothering to check for a pulse or breathing; he doesn't want to know yet.

Dick's no longer bent over the table, but sitting on the ground with his legs pulled up to his chest. He's staring at Jason, but there's a hazy, faraway look in his eyes that Jason finds concerning.

"Okay, Dickie," Jason murmurs. "You're okay now. No one's going to hurt you anymore."

Dick just blinks at him and nods absently. Something about it rings so very false.

"Yes, Master," Dick murmurs, and, looking at his brother, Jason can't help but doubt his own words.

**Author's Note:**

> Brand new DC Kinkmeme just opened up, you guys should [check it out](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/)!
> 
> That's all folks! Hope y'all had fun reading this 😁


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